


The Challenge

by Sevynlira



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Begging, Bets & Wagers, Frottage, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gentleness, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm, Safeword Use, Service Submission, Sexual Fantasy, Voyeurism, mention of historical slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26589619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevynlira/pseuds/Sevynlira
Summary: "You want to have sex with me." He had announced without a single word of preparation or hint that he was about to say such a thing.If Aziraphale hadn't been a supernatural entity he would have spewed wine out of his nose. He is very fortunate that wine knows better than to misbehave around him. Some of his dignity is spared but it is a close thing that is still very much at risk as he stares in horror at the smirking demon across the table from him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 112
Kudos: 297





	1. I Double Dog Dare You

Sometimes Aziraphale is able to forget for days or weeks at a time that he is in the company of a demon. Right now is not one of those times. Right now he is shockingly more aware of it than he had been in quite a while. 

There might as well be a giant sign above Crowley’s head that says “Hello. I’m a wicked horrible demon that is going to sew chaos and trouble right in the middle of dinner tonight.” 

They are enjoying the most recent in a long line of meals at one of the best restaurants that London has to offer. It is a posh space. A regal old fashioned sort of place. One with gentle light and sparkling clean elegance. And Crowley has just reminded him that he is indeed a demon. Nobody but a demon would be smirking from across the table after dropping the bombshell he just did in the middle of their meal. 

"You want to have sex with me." He had announced without a single word of preparation or hint that he was about to say such a thing. 

If Aziraphale hadn't been a supernatural entity he would have spewed wine out of his nose. He is very fortunate that wine knows better than to misbehave around him. Some of his dignity is spared but it is a close thing that is still very much at risk as he stares in horror at the smirking demon across the table from him. 

To be fair, Crowley looks just as surprised as he is. Not obviously so. But if you happen to have known him since Eden you can see that the smirk is only half felt, while his shoulders and hands have become absolutely still.

“Crowley, what on earth--” Aziraphale begins to sputter before he is interrupted.

“You want to have sex with me.” Crowley says. Again. As if he hadn’t been heard the first time.

Aziraphale dares to glance around to check if anyone else has heard him. A nearby waiter manages to stifle his shocked expression down to just the merest raise of an eyebrow. Ah. He is never going to be able to return here again. Damn Crowley! They have marvellous canapes! 

Crowley opens his mouth as if he is about to repeat himself. This time Aziraphale is able to head him off. “Crowley. We are not having this conversation here!” He can feel his face burning and his stomach twists with sudden anxiety. 

The demon isn’t generous enough to completely be silent, but he does lean closer and lower his voice in a small concession to Aziraphale’s obvious embarrassment. “Angel, nobody cares. Seriously. The only people who might have overheard are going to forget us when we leave anyway. You don’t have to look so terrified. I’m not going to ruin your chance at the canapes. I wouldn’t dare!” 

There is a small teasing curl to the corner of his mouth, as Aziraphale does gather some of his composure. Wily demon loves to get a rise out of him sometimes, but truly, he does trust that Crowley really won’t embarrass him that much. Still, his face feels hot and the languid amusement in Crowley’s eyes won’t let him stop replaying his ridiculous claim. He can tell the subject has not been dropped, merely delayed. 

Crowley is kind enough to let him stew in anticipation of the topic for another solid week before it comes around again. He isn’t sure if that makes the demon more or less evil. They have settled into the quiet warmth of the bookshop’s embrace when Crowley repeats it yet again. For a second, Aziraphale isn’t sure if it was his mind replaying him saying it for the millionth time or if he actually had said it. Two bottles of robust red had obscured reality enough for doubt. 

“You want to have sex with me.” He insists with the same confidence and surety as before. 

At least this time, they are in private and he can just disabuse the demon of that nonsense and they can go back to enjoying each other’s company as they always have. Crowley’s imagination has always been the best part of him and his wild notions have never failed to amuse and delight. It is impossible to stay bored around him. Not for a second. There is some new unexpected corner to turn or scheme to enact. This time it happens to be sex. Not surprising really. The pretty fiend is probably up to his neck in offers from hapless humans drawn in by the sense of danger that is squashed into those micro hip pockets. 

Aziraphale straightens into his best instructional pose for imparting and illustrating truth. He sets his wine to the side, and turns a patient and warm gaze toward Crowley. “My dear, I am an angel.” He begins with his most sincere and patient tone. 

Crowley makes a face like he just swallowed a bug. “Aughhh. Don’t. Don’t do that!” He shakes his head and gestures toward the angel with his wine glass. “Stop. Don’t talk to me like I’m a bloody human. I know what you are Aziraphale.” He emphasizes the name as an intentional demonstration of just how aware he is. Yes. Crowley is aware. He mentions exactly how much every single time they speak. It’s a very good point. 

“Well. Then stop acting like one.” Aziraphale fires back with rather more force and coldness than he actually intends. Crowley flinches for a second. Then he rallies and lifts a single brow. It has become a challenge now. Oh bugger. He shouldn’t have raised the stakes so early in this chat. There won’t be some patient calm talk now. It’s going to devolve into hissing and insults. 

“Oh. I should stop acting like a human?” Crowley asks with sarcasm lacing every word. “You mean like owning great old bookshops and eating pastries. Stuff like that?”

Aziraphale can feel the tops of his ears turning pink. “That’s different!” He offers, even as he knows it is a weak argument. 

“It isn’t.” Crowley insists. “It’s part of living in these bodies and you like them. You like them a lot and I really like watching you enjoy them. Because we share that. We are existing in quite hedonistic warm little bodies and yours wants to have sex with me.” 

“I most certainly do not.” Aziraphale huffs with indignant pride.

“You do!” The demon growls in frustration before pushing to his feet and pacing the little room. After a couple of turns, he spins on his heel and pins Aziraphale with fierce determination. “Wanna bet?” 

“What?” Aziraphale exclaims “Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley.” 

The demon ignores the interruption and grows more animated as the idea takes root. “Yeah. I bet.” He stops and thinks for a second. “I bet in five...no...three days I could show you. Three days, angel. I could show you that you do.”

“You can’t. And you won’t.” Aziraphale takes a sip of his wine, while rolling his eyes at the ridiculous notion. 

“You are scared that I am right.” The demon taunts.

“I am not!” Aziraphale protests. “Crowley. We are friends. These sort of...liaisons, there is a lot of effort. And risk.” The angel explains patiently.

“Not any more, angel. Not now. Our own side. We can do what we bloody well like.”

“Well. I don’t like that.” Aziraphale states quite plainly. Refusing to meet Crowley’s intent gaze.

This seems to bring Crowley up short. “You don’t?” He stops for a second and turns the idea over. “Have you tried it then? You are quite sure?” 

Aziraphale squirms. “Well if you must know. Yes. I have. I tried on two separate occasions just to be certain. The way humans write about it. Seemed exactly the sort of thing…” He can’t finish the sentence without being much too graphic and his face already feels like it is on fire from the inconvenient blush. 

“Who were they?” Crowley asks in a soft voice. “Do you visit their graves?” “Do you know the names of their kin?” 

The question is so cruel. So unlike his friend, Aziraphale feels his chest clench and the shyness he had been feeling evaporates in an instant. His gaze shoots up toward the demon in frank amazement. “Crowley. That’s.” It’s heartless. They have both lost so many connections and friendships because of the short lived nature of the humans. It is a pain he had always thought they shared. To use it right now as a weapon in a silly discussion about sex is a shocking move.  
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” Crowley scowls and scrubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out. I only.” He stops to search for the right words for a moment. “I meant that these things are different, when you are close. When you know a person well. When they know you well. It is actually possible that it might have some influence on the experience. Were they close to you?” 

Aziraphale demurs. It is something he hadn’t considered. “It would have been unfair.” He explains himself. “So I hired professionals. They would have experience and not require the emotional entanglement. I didn’t wish to harm anyone.” 

“You did the right thing.” Crowley turns and moves toward the sofa again, flopping into it with his usual boneless grace. “But it might have soured the entire experience, in your case. For some people it does. Some humans can’t enjoy that sort of thing without having that emotional entanglement. It could be the same for you, angel. I think it is. I think I could show you. Three days. We can make rules. If you feel the same after three days I won’t bring it up again.”

Damn demon. He had done it. Again. Made the reasonable argument. Twisted reality and showed some hidden facet that Aziraphale had never considered before. The snake with the apple. Forever pulling some wondrous beautiful logic out of hiding to change everything. 

Could he be right? What risk is there in at least trying it? Three days of Crowley slinking around being beautiful is nothing new. Once he realises that Aziraphale just isn’t wired that way, the matter will settle. Doing a small experiment would be good for him too. Knowing oneself isn’t dangerous or wrong. Taking the time to explore and examine the world had already given him books and crepes and the duck pond and a best friend. Three days of this little examination of his corporation won’t hurt him a bit. 

Besides, Crowley seems stuck on the notion and he likes the rare occasion when he can do something for the demon. He rarely ever asks for anything. Not food or drink or clothes or shelter. Often, the only thing Aziraphale can offer is his company. His little shop and the sofa. 

“What would the rules be?” Aziraphale asks.

Immediately Crowley’s head pops up and a clever little smile is dancing at his lips. He can sense victory already. Smug bastard. The angel resists the urge to roll his eyes again. 

“Well, for starters, the days have to be consecutive. Three in a row. I am not going to be waiting a thousand years for the next day to come along. All in a row.” He emphasizes with a nod.

“Alright. That sounds fair enough. Getting it out of the way suits me as well.” Aziraphale agrees. “However, I don’t think you need the entire day, Crowley. These things take, What? An hour? At most! Be reasonable. You certainly won’t need all day long.” 

“Oh. Won’t I?” Crowley says dryly and lifts his mostly untouched wine to his lips. “Six hours.” He bargains.

“One hour.” Aziraphale counters.

“Four hours. C’mon. Give me something to work with.” the demon pleads.

“Two hours. Really Crowley. Are you afraid you can’t accomplish your goal?” Aziraphale challenges.

“What? No. I am not afraid. Fine. Two hours.” He huffs.

“Fine.” Aziraphale repeats.

“But you have to make an effort. The entire time.” 

Aziraphale squeaks in offense. “Crowley. That is cheating! These bodies react and you will take it to mean whatever you like!” 

“Aziraphale. I am suggesting physical intimacy and sex. You won’t know if you like the journey if you don’t pack for the trip. The challenge makes zero sense without you bringing along all the human hormones and bits involved. For fucks sake.” 

“Fine. Alright. But no touching it. Bodies react and I won’t have you misunderstanding.” 

Crowley makes a displeased little noise but concedes. “Fine. I won’t touch you there unless you ask.” 

“I won’t.” the angel states flatly.

“We will see.” The demon says with the softest tone of triumph already ringing in his voice.

“Where will this all happen, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, and the clear indication that he is actually considering the logistics of this wager is enough to put a happy look in the demon’s eyes.

“My place. For sure.” Crowley says without hesitation.

“We never go to your place. Why there? Do you have a sex dungeon in your house Crowley?” 

Crowley laughs his entire laugh. The one that tips his head back and curves his smile all the way up to flash the white edge of his canines. “What do YOU know about sex dungeons, angel?” He is still laughing through the words. “No. I do not have a sex dungeon. There just isn’t any room to spread out here.” He flicks his eyes over Aziraphale and a teasing note enters his voice. “And tartan ruins the mood.”

Aziraphale huffs. Reflexively he touches his bow tie. “Well, my dear. If tartan ruins the mood, then having me there will certainly be ruining it. So we can both be done with this silly wager.” 

A dark, more predatory gleam flashes in Crowley’s eyes. Something hot and lascivious. “Oh, angel. That bowtie is the first thing that is going to go.” 

Aziraphale’s heart slams a little bit harder and his stomach swoops in a clenching anticipatory excitement. The feeling is so sudden and unexpected that he can only blink at Crowley before wildly reaching for some other subject to latch on to. 

“When?” he desperately asks. Immediately his mind replays the conversation and it sounds way too much like he is asking when Crowley is going to strip him of his bowtie and that... That…

“When will this ridiculous wager happen.” He clarifies. In a shaky tone that does help to gather his wits a bit.

“Now.” Crowley demands. That look. It still hasn’t left. His unblinking eyes absolutely burn with intention. 

Aziraphale escapes that gaze by scoffing loudly. “No! Now?! There is no time to prepare. No. It must be a proper wager and it's unfair. You just threw this entire thing at me completely out of the blue. You must give me time, Crowley. A year.”

It is Crowley’s turn to scoff. “You’re joking! They are genitals. Not the bloody Taj Mahal! Tomorrow.” He counters.

“You are being ridiculous. You only want to keep me completely unprepared because you think it will give you the advantage. Three months.” This more comfortable negotiation has calmed his thumping pulse, and much to his relief, Crowley seems to have remembered to blink again and settled back into the familiar routes of challenge and parry. 

“In three months we could vacation to the Pleiades. You are putting it off so that you can wiggle out of it. You aren’t fooling me, angel. Three days.” 

“I haven’t made an effort in two thousand years, Crowley. You must give me time. One month.” 

He might have, perhaps, said too much because that does seem to stop Crowley for a second as he considers the point. “That long?” He asks as if actually surprised and thrown by this information. “ You do make a good point, angel. You are right. Two weeks. Two weeks and I won’t mention anything about our wager. Not a hint. Not a whisper. I won’t tease or bother you about it at all. I will give you all the space to prepare as you like. Zero interference. And after three days, just six hours of private time with me, you are going to say with your own mouth that you want to have sex with me.” 

The offer is tempting. It’s meant to be. Aziraphale tries to remember the heady emotional riptide of hormones and the spasm of body and sensation that follows. It’s so hazy and far away. He had set them aside as a fruitless and useless bit of human nature and considered the matter settled. He hadn’t imagined revisiting it. Revisiting it with Crowley. 

Two weeks.

He can already feel himself agreeing and knows the demon can as well.

“Fine. Two weeks.”


	2. Two Weeks is Too damn Long

Aziraphale completely wasted the first week. Something anxious would rise up in the center of his chest. He found other distractions much more compelling. Before he can even completely face the issue, a week has flown past. For the first time, he considers that maybe putting it off was actually the wrong way to argue this entire situation. Perhaps he should have just agreed to jump right in. This anticipation is twisting his nerves and if he had just gone for it, it would have been over by now. Instead he is faced with only one week to adjust to all the aspects of existing as a person with the capacity for sex. 

Completely frustrated with himself, he finally just snaps and manifests genitals in one great pulse of power. That was the worst idea ever. The pinch of anger and frustration and the sudden rerouting of quite a lot of blood was done so quickly that Aziraphale feels the room spin in dizziness and his surprised body isn’t sure what to do about it. So not only does he have a brand new penis, he has a half erect one. He gasps in shock and bends at the waist as if punched in the stomach. 

The stiff hungry ridge of flesh pulses with life and his brain tries to tell him something quite urgent about touching it. All while the rest of him stays spitting mad. Damn Crowley! Fuck. He is going to strangle that demon. He can just picture the smug bastard smirking at his ridiculous state. Ugh. He would wipe that fucking look off his face. Push him against the wall. Cover his mouth with one hand. Rip those ridiculous skinny jeans down his hips. He would- Fuck. Oh fuck.

Aziraphale’s stuttering brain is flooded with all the hastily written hormonal diatribes and blasting with frustration and anxiety. By the time it manages to surface enough and tell him exactly where his imagination is galloping off too, he has already arrived. 

The shock of it is like being dunked in cold water. Fuck. He has been the reluctant inhabitant of a penis owning body for two minutes and already he has pictured quite vividly what a pleasure it would be to take his friend hard against the wall. As punishment. As pleasure. Taking what he wants to prove a point. 

Surprise manages to finally produce enough of a chemical incentive to calm his erection. So he is left feeling that peculiar deflating of his desire while the lingering blush of it still remains in his skin and slamming heart. He is so fucked. So fucking fucked. It hadn’t been that long. Surely he hadn’t forgotten that much! It hadn’t been that potent. How do they stand it? The humans. Walking around and feeling like this. It was good that he had set this aside. Miserable. 

How is he going to adjust to this? With only a week? Ruefully he looks down at his lap. There is a wet spot just to the side of his fly. Great. He doesn’t miss that at all. 

Allright. He has to game this entire thing out. What will Crowley do to incite him to want to rub his genitals over and around and on him. Aziraphale draws a blank. The problem is, he can read the intentions and habits of humans like a book. He can know they are heading for seduction and pleasantly reroute the entire affair before it gets out of hand. So any attempts they had made were gently prodded away until they melted. For the first time, he regrets doing that quite so diligently. If he had allowed at least some of the seduction through the gate, he might have some hint as to where Crowley might take it. 

The only mildly credible suggestions his brain seems to make is dinner and the sex dungeon. The first is his own affection for food and his body agreeing that it is something analogous to pleasure. It’s more than useless. The second is lewd and bold. It's more likely. So. In a sex dungeon. Crowley has promised not to touch him. Ok. Maybe he will demonstrate some sexual prowess. A demonstration to show he is skilled. With a human there? He hadn’t even thought to make that a rule. That they be alone. Oh fuck. What if he brings a human. A human that looks a little bit like him. What if he ploughs the man right in front of him? 

The slick squirm of distaste at the notion is reassuring. Yeah. That would be disgusting. Embarrassing as well. Watching some human get all sweaty and letting Crowley rodger him until he starts fawning and crying for more is going to make everything so awkward and fucked up. He will probably have to keep from making that face Gabriel makes over sushi. He won’t be impolite. Just calmly tell Crowley that he is wrong and be on with his day. That. Isn’t so bad. 

That little weird biological glitch had been the tangle of his brain trying to link frustration with Crowley and sex because his penis was erect. That is all. These bodies will link just about anything with sex if one is erect. It's a matter of physiology.

He wears the effort every day. He adjusts to the fluttering sensation of horniness that swings like tides with the day. He even dares to meet Crowley for a meal. Sitting across from him while wearing his effort and enjoying food. There. It was fine. He was fine. Crowley has been a perfect gentleman and doesn’t mention the wager or act strange at all. In fact, he seems quite content to allow Aziraphale to distract and lead the conversation wherever he likes. 

It is a relief. He is still the same angel. His friend is still Crowley. The same. The evening ends so pleasantly. He allows himself the comfort of a familiar book and a fire until dawn breaks. As usual, this time of morning drags with it a tidal bath of hormones that rise with the day. His body flushes with arousal as his cock fattens just a little against his thigh. He thinks of Crowley’s real laugh. The one that tips his head back. The flash of those teeth. His slender pretty hands against the white tablecloth. The scent of his car. Fuck. Aziraphale’s hips ache and he gives in to the smallest urge to tip his pelvis forward. Just once. It mashes the head of his cock more firmly into his fly. Crowley’s knee brushing against his beneath the table. 

Aziraphale reaches to smooth his fingertips down the hot bulge in his trousers. What if? What if he had done that while Crowley sat beside him at the table? What if he had silently touched himself like this beneath the cloth? Would Crowley have noticed? Could he have gotten away with it? His eyes flutter closed as he imagines the demon sitting there. Next to him. His knee. He always watches. He would be. Searching Aziraphale’s face while he eats. He would know. He would know it was happening. That Aziraphale was doing this. He would have to be so still. So slow. Just. Barely. While trying to not breathe too hard. To give it away. Trying not to make any noise. Just easing his fly open. Fuck. It's so hot inside his pants. His cock is blazing with heat. It stiffens with every butterfly brush of Aziraphale’s fingertips. Crowley would watch him and know he was touching himself. In secret. Their secret. It would excite Crowley. These things do. His face would grin with that wicked look he gets when they are getting away with something. He would be pleased. He would like it. 

Would it arouse him? Would Crowley be hard or wet? What does he look like horny? 

Once again, he has shocked himself with his wild imagination. Fuck. That. Is embarrassing. He can’t do this. He doesn’t like sex. He doesn’t like the sounds or the sensation or the smell. He doesn’t like the ache and the out of control feeling. It isn’t as pleasant as people say it is. It just isn’t. It is only awkward and wet and embarrassing. Once you regain your senses, none of it feels connected at all to the feelings before it happens. It feels less. It feels. It is a let down. A disappointment. 

He can picture Crowley so pretty and horny and hard and sexy. Ok. He will admit that much. Crowley standing at the side of a bed and scraping cum off his chest and slapping Aziraphale’s rapidly cooling flank in thanks before taking his leave. Yes. It isn’t appealing at all. It is a function of the body and that is all. Touching his cock will stop being fun the second he orgasms. And the slimy feeling of weird inappropriate fantasies will just keep him embarrassed the rest of the time. It’s awful. 

His frustration follows the brutal path of his thoughts as he angrily jacks his cock until he comes. He hates every second of it. 

He tries porn. No. 

He flirts with a human. A redhead. Even worse. No. 

He was right. Crowley is going to lose this wager.


	3. Thermae

It isn’t until the day of the wager, when Aziraphale is about to climb the walls with anxiety that it occurs to him that his challenger is a demon. Of course he is. Will he do something demonic? Will sex for a demon be somehow different? Will he want something gross or sinful? Aziraphale’s brain scrambles to draw some sort of map or conclusion. What if Crowley is going to take him to a dungeon and hurt him? What if he is going to playact something dark or sordid. Fuck. He can’t. He feels sick a little. 

When Crowley shows up. He looks. So fucking normal. So casual and comfortable. After a few hours of imagining a demon doing shocking sexual feats. This cool relaxed Crowley is so blessedly welcome that Aziraphale can feel himself sinking with relief. Fuck. It’s Crowley. Of course it is Crowley. He would trust him with his life. He isn’t going to hurt him. He wouldn’t. It’s a ridiculous anxiety ridden result of two weeks of torture. He was a fucking idiot to make them wait this long is all. He feels absolutely ridiculous. Of course he does.

He can’t wait to get rid of this thing. It’s seriously going to drive him over the bend. 

“Allright angel? Shall we go eat first? I won’t have you getting peckish and grumpy.” He teases. 

He couldn’t possibly eat. His stomach is in knots. “No. It’s quite alright. Let’s go to your flat, Crowley.” He says in a tone so mild and calm that he surprises even himself. Crowley graciously doesn’t tease him or imply he is eager. Only leads him to the Bentley on the kerb. 

Aziraphale is grateful for London traffic for the first time in his extremely long life. Focusing on the panic and terror of Crowley’s driving is a welcome relief from focusing on the panic and terror of their upcoming wager. It's nice to worry about dying in a fireball. Much better than dying of sexual humiliation while his best friend watches. 

His anxiety resurges, of course, as they enter the foyer of the cool dim flat. All sleek and brutal. He has been brought here on a sexual challenge and all of the fantastical horrors he has cooked up seem like they might pop around every corner. 

It isn’t until Crowley takes his cold numb fingertips into his own warm hands that he realises that twisting them has robbed them of blood flow. They have progressed to a narrow hallway and Aziraphale is trying to breathe. 

Crowley waits until his eyes finally dart up to check his face. “Aziraphale. Hey. You are shaking. I promise you will be fine. You are the most stubborn angel I know. You are going to go in here and probably just prove me all wrong and be smug for the next millennium. I swear you will be ok. I won’t hurt you. I thought about it. You should have a word. Let's pick a word. If you say that word then everything will be over tonight and you can go home. I will let it go. We will try again tomorrow. And after three days it will be over. Completely. If you win. We will be just as before. You can brag all you like about winning. If I win, then we will be lovers. So it is winning no matter what. Allright? There is no losing in this entire deal. Not really. Not for us. I am going nowhere. You are my friend forever. Let’s pick a word. You can decide everything. Just one word and it stops.”

The absolute sincerity and bold honesty of Crowley’s speech has completely banished every single fear. Like it was nothing. In two seconds. After two weeks of sheer agony. Just standing here in this hallway, Crowley holding his cold hands and speaking with his bright eyes wide open. Making a path for him. If he needs to get out. An exit if he needs it. It is not even surprising. Not from him. Crowley radiates a kindness that Aziraphale could wrap around his heart forever. A generosity of spirit that is wild in its own way, insists on threat and sarcasm and pessimism, but somehow rings more true than an archangel talking about god herself. 

“Pleiades” Aziraphale whispers. 

For a second, Crowley is confused. He must have believed he would have to cajole a bit more. “Ah. Ok. Pleiades. Just say that and I swear everything will stop.” 

The angel nods in agreement and allows himself to be led into the next room.

It isn’t a sex dungeon. In fact, it is hardly bigger than the hallway had been.The same soft charcoal grey and black theme dominates. A wooden bench is along one wall and a low stool. A small table is tucked into one corner with a candle and incense burner. All. Rather. Anticlimactic. Aziraphale looks around for some sign of what is about to happen, and doesn’t find much of a clue. Other than the warmth. This room is much warmer than the hallway had been. By a lot. Something about the room feels. Familiar. In some way.

Crowley isn’t giving a single hint, only turning to a control panel on the wall and punching something into the touchpad that results in the soft sounds of a forest filling the room. Birdsong. Wind in the leaves. Demon sex. And birdsong. It. Isn’t at all what he had expected. It isn’t even in the same ballpark. He can’t even guess right now. So he does the obvious thing and sits on the wooden bench. Crowley is now fiddling with the cabinet to draw out a shallow blonde wood tub. Aziraphale leans back against the wall and is surprised to notice. Heat. The walls are heated. Oh. That must be why the room is so warm. Uncomfortably warm actually. His collar feels constricting in the heat. 

The demon is finished fussing and returns to sit with Aziraphale on the bench. 

“The walls are heated.” Aziraphale says, stupidly. 

“Mmhmm. I didn’t want you to get cold, angel.” Crowley says simply while reaching for the center of his throat. “May I?” He asks while looking far too pleased about the prospect of divesting the angel of some tartan. 

Wow. A warm room. For undressing. For Crowley to undress him. So he doesn’t get cold. It is at once, startlingly sensual and incredibly thoughtful and generous. Who does that? Makes an entire room just to undress a lover. So they won’t have to shiver. It is. Decadent. Expensive. Crowley. Of course. It is exactly him. So obviously him. He shouldn’t be surprised. 

While his rumination on this had distracted him, those long slender hands had removed his bow tie, unhooked his collar and was working on his cuffs. No groping or squeezing. Efficient smooth pretty motions that tuck his sleeves up his forearms. 

He dares to look at Crowley. The demon is maddeningly placid. Of course he is. He is orchestrating everything and knows exactly what is coming next. The bastard. 

Aziraphale glares for a little bit to make himself feel better. Crowley finally raises his head and winks. Cheeky fuck. The wink is followed by a sharp snap and the demon is completely transformed. He is wearing a short dark black tunic that only falls to the tops of his thighs. It would have been indecent in any society. But a slave in his master’s house might wear such a thing. For his master’s pleasure. His bare ankles are cuffed with a wide heavy bronze cuff that matches the adornment on his biceps.

Rome. Immediately Aziraphale knows why this room feels so familiar. He is in the first room of a roman thermae. A bathhouse. 

“A tepidarium!” he exclaims with the delight of figuring it out. “How lovely.” He praises before his mouth can shut itself and his brain can work out exactly what such a structure will actually mean. For them. He is inside a roman bathhouse and Crowley is quite beautifully dressed as a slave. Oh. OH. The dawning revelation has made it absolutely clear exactly what sort of two hours he will be spending. He is now just as knowledgeable as Crowley is about what will happen next. He knows every single step. It is ritual and comfort and nothing here will take him by surprise. 

Crowley is the cleverest most wicked horrible demon on the planet. He knows how much Aziraphale loved the baths. He knows exactly how much. Two thousand years ago was the last time he had considered an orgasm a worthy endeavor. Rome. The baths. They were the reason why. Fuck. The sense memory alone has his body preparing for pleasure. Fuck.

If he wasn’t so breathless he would strangle Crowley. 

While Aziraphale is having an existential meltdown, the demon has crouched so beautifully at his feet and gently tugged his shoes and socks from his feet. Crowley has changed his hair to fall just to his shoulders. His head is tipped down and the arch of his pale arms flex and move as he rolls the cuffs of Aziraphale’s trousers up to his knees. If he could catch his breath, he might scold Crowley for wrinkling them. Instead he is completely fascinated by the smattering of pale gold freckles that spill over his skin. Had he known they were there before? The freckles on his bare shoulders?

Crowley pulls the shallow tub over. Hot water. He is going to wash Aziraphale’s feet. Deep respect. Affection. Service. Symbolism. History. From the time when everyone walked everywhere. The people that washed your feet were people you trusted the most. A lover might do that in an act of devotion. But so might a comrade on the fields of battle. A brother as an apology. A mother to show her pride. A slave for a master. The demonstration is at once startlingly intimate and yet still gentle and this side of innocuous. Crowley couldn’t have aimed more true. 

The demon guides his feet into the tub before reaching for an ampoule of oil. He warms it with a brisk little rub of his palms together and the scent rises into the warm air. Burning cedar. Sandalwood. Crowley. It smells. It smells like Crowley. Like his hair does. Like his skin does. The oil is not human. This is not linseed or coconut or sunflower. This is wing oil. Thick and intimate and filling the entire room with the musk of him. He. He is going to drench Aziraphale’s skin in his own scent. Mark him. Rub it into his skin. Starting with his feet. 

Aziraphale leans forward. Pushes his hand out. Catches Crowley’s forearm. “Wait.” he manages to choke out. He swallows. He tries to breathe. Crowley turns his face up. His golden eyes are shining with desire. He is still. Waiting. Waiting for Aziraphale to say anything. To stop him. Waiting for the one word that would end all of it. He thinks it. He thinks. “Pleiades”. So easy. He can go back to the bookshop. It won’t happen again. This thing. This terrifying beautiful thing. Crowley will not pour out his oil and touch him. The silence stretches.

He is frozen. So Crowley moves for them both. He gently pulls his arm away from Aziraphale’s restraining hand and returns to his task. He wraps shining slick fingers around Aziraphale’s ankle and lifts his foot from the water. Tenderly he cups his heel with one oiled palm and with the other hand he begins to slowly press and squeeze his foot. Slowly he settles into the task. Aziraphale only helplessly watches and those beautiful hands begin a slow sensual dance. He alternates hands, pulling his foot in slow easy sweeps. Eventually the tension drains as the minutes drop away. Crowley’s hands warm from the friction and he digs his thumbs gently into the arch of the angel’s foot. Dragging his hand up, and keeping his thumbs hard and tight all the way up the sole of his foot does something wicked and perfect to Aziraphale’s entire body. He slumps back, tipping his head onto the warm wall and clutching the edge of the bench with his fingertips. Clever fingers rub and flex and stroke his foot until his thighs relax entirely and the weight of his leg is completely supported by the demon. By the time he is completely finished, the angel is heavy limbed and relaxed. 

Aziraphale feels his head begin to clear the smallest bit as Crowley steps aside to grab a length of white cloth. A loose tunic. For him. 

Those hands are still graceful and smelling of wing oil as they undress him. There is no startling sign of lewd intention or disrespect. There is only the casual alert attention of a slave. He had almost forgotten how comfortable the tunic had been. Just loose folds of soft pale fabric that brush against his skin as he moves. Both sensual and practical. He is almost comfortable enough to not notice the curve of Crowley’s arse as he bends to scoop up a bathing sheet from the cabinet. Almost. His mind betrays him immediately by saving the image of the dark shadow between his small pretty cheeks. A space he would like to put his hand to touch what he knows is bare beneath. The hanging weight of his balls. Or the wet little slit there. Nothing but a teasing hint of shadow. It is maddening. His cock twitches.

Crowley pushes his way into the next room, the caldarium. This room is round. Completely shrouded in heavy steam. Black and grey tiles carry the theme here too, but the immense sunken pool is the highlight of the room. It is clad in black limestone. Shot through with gold flecks. A black starscape. Crowley holds Aziraphale’s arm as they make their way down to the lip of the pool. The leftover oil still between his toes or running from his ankle might cause a slip on the wet stone. Once he is settled to sit with his feet and calves dangling in the water and his tunic tucked up around his hips, Crowley once again settles into the calm busy work of the thermae. The ampoule, this one slightly larger, makes another appearance. Of course. The sound of forests stirring in the wind here too. 

There isn’t a word for the feeling he has when Crowley kneels behind him to unpick the corner of the tunic at his shoulder. Not a single word for his friction hot hand curved around the back of Aziraphale’s neck. His head is completely out of language to describe the spill of cool oil poured over his naked skin while Crowley holds him like that. Delicate oiled hands cupping his nape and the other tipping the bottle. He is struck dumb by it. Devastated. He didn’t even know a world existed with this in it. He closes his eyes against the force of it. The ache of it. How much tenderness could one moment possibly carry? How much gentle respect and care could possibly be wrapped inside one single motion? Time doesn’t stop. It races on and those hands have moved on. Now sliding the quickly warming oil over his shoulders and back. Rubbing it into his neck and arms. The claiming scent of it. Hotter. Closer. Mingling with the steam for him to breathe in and take Crowley into his lungs. Into his breath and body. 

“This is the quietest you have ever been angel.” Crowley murmurs while sliding his fingers over Aziraphale’s wrists and rubbing oil into his palms. Aziraphale tries. He really tries. To open his eyes and say something. To put any single word out there. But there aren’t any. No possible way to express himself in this moment. His throat feels swollen shut. Tight with this bursting emotion. “Shhh. Don’t worry about it.” Crowley soothes. “You don’t have to say anything at all. Relax. I have got you. This is for you to relax. Enjoy. I’ll take care of you.” 

It is much easier after that. He does relax. He falls into some twilight consciousness where he floats suspended in a sea of stars and those oil slick fingers keep him tethered safe to the shore. A strigil is taken in hand and scrapes along his skin. It is a tiny bronze spatula that rakes the dirt and oil and cares of the day off his skin. It is obviously something that has belonged to Crowley since then. Carefully, most of the oil is dragged off his skin down into the pooled tunic and his chest and arms and back gleam with the pink flush of heat and oil. Crowley had promised not to touch him where he most craves it, and he is completely torn on whether he hates it or loves it, because the tiny twitch in the tepidarium has been upgraded to an aching tumescence that gets worse every minute. But true to his promise, the strigil stops at his waist and Crowley does him the additional respect of not disrobing him for the dip into the pool. Instead, he leads him, half draped in tunic into the hot water. Every single muscle that hadn’t already unwound from the foot massage immediately melts in the heat and Aziraphale sighs in rapture. Crowley has taken his place on the lip of the pool and has a couple of unlabeled bottles of what appears to be modern bathing soaps. The oil on his skin makes it slick and sensual beneath the water and his fingertips over his belly to feel the satin texture of it. 

“Have a dip, angel. Then come here. I will wash your hair.” Crowley says. As if that is something that happens in their universe. Crowley washing his hair. 

Aziraphale dips his head beneath the water. The shock of blasting heat on his face helps. It calms his erection enough to think a little bit. Relieved to feel more clear headed, He floats over to where Crowley sits on a sunken step. Hot water laps the short tunic up to expose even the tops of his thighs and the edge of one hip. Only watery obscured black shapes beneath. A tease. So fucking beautiful. He wants very much in that moment to bite that soft pale expanse of thigh. Fuck. The erection is back. 

Crowley smirks.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and turns his back to the infuriating demon, grateful that washing his hair won’t involve looking at those pale thighs any more. 

No. Washing his hair involves laying back in the water with his erection poking up like some lewd street sign “This way to one horny angel”. It involves those beautiful hands caressing his scalp and nails scraping through his curls until he can feel every single touch all the way to his toes. 

He is so aroused by the time Crowley wraps him in a drying sheet that he can hardly walk. His lip is a wreck from biting it. Every single inch of his skin feels aware and hot and ready. He almost cries in absolute relief to be led into the frigidarium. 

The frigidarium is awful. Immersing his completely aroused and painfully erect cock into water that has frozen chunks of ice in it, makes him yelp. Oh fuck. Oh fucking fuck. He says so many curse words in so many languages that Crowley is absolutely rolling with laughter. The absolute bastard. It works though. Clarity has returned. Painfully.

He is soft again. Able to speak even. 

He asks the time. Only an hour. How has this only been a single hour? It feels as if he has been in this private realm with Crowley for days. Years. He accuses Crowley of time fuckery.

The bastard laughs. 

He still has another hour to go.

This time he is led into a modern spa room. The lighting is dim and a massage table is positioned dead center. This room is lightened considerably from the unrelenting black and charcoal by soft bamboo accents of burnished tan and gold. The wind and the birds have followed here. Crowley guides him onto his stomach on the table, tactfully draping the wet bathing sheet over his hips before using a dry warm towel in some clever switching motion that covers his backside in comforting warmth. It is half magic trick and half showoff. He likes it. Crowley knows he does. The bastard. 

Ok. A massage. He shouldn’t be surprised that the ever present ampoule of wing oil is here as well. Of course it is. Bloody infuriating demon. He is not content to leave that oil scraped free and simply soaked into his pores after a bath. No. He is going to re-apply. Why doesn’t he just piss on him while he is at it. Like a fucking cat marking his space. For fucks sake. 

The massage turns out so much easier than he thought it would. He endures it better than the hair washing. Probably because the anticipation and nerves and such had settled. He is maybe getting used to it? Of course, every once in a while those long powerful fingers sliding in oil up his calf or over the nape of his neck wrings a full body shudder from him. It's still blissfully good. His entire body has turned into mush. He feels like he is melting into the table. 

He should have known better. Just as he was about to fall into a full on drowsy sleep, the warm towel folded up. His bare behind is exposed. One scalding hot hand is squeezing his ass. Immediately his body springs to full attention. His cock hardens and twitches beneath him on the table. It hurts. He whimpers and jerks his hips up a little. To relieve the pressure. The other hand grips his hip as he arches up and holds it there.

Snap.

And a bolster pillow is beneath his hips. Giving his poor cock room and arching his ass up in display. He feels his entire upper body flush hot with humiliation. Fuck. He is facedown on this massage table. Completely naked except a folded towel that is doing absolutely nothing for his modesty. His naked ass is pointed up and he is hard as a rock beneath. They wait. He knows what Crowley is waiting for. Him to say it. To say the word. The one word that would end all of this. Crowley won’t touch his cock. He has said he won't. But all the rest of him has been so perfectly blissfully touched and caressed and held. Will Crowley? Will he touch him there?

He holds his breath. Fuck. He could say it. But his body is actually vibrating with need. He will die if Crowley doesn’t do something soon. He will scream. He will come. Something. Anything to end this tension. 

Aziraphale whimpers. Then deepens the arch of his back. He invites his demon in. 

Crowley obliges. Those endlessly clever hands grab both of his ass cheeks and squeeze. They are freshly doused with oil and the scent of them mixes with the scent of Aziraphale’s dripping cock. Aziraphale feels one warm drizzle of oil drip down his thigh all the way to his knee. Another runnel of oil tickles it way into the light delicate blonde hairs of his crack. The demon leans close. Aziraphale can feel body heat pouring from Crowley there behind him. Then. The hot fan of breath against his hip. A tongue. Crowley is chasing the drip of oil up his thigh. Licking his own wing oil from Aziraphale’s upturned ass. The angel grips the massage table with his fingers until his fingertips turn white. Those strong hands flex again, his ass cheeks part and his hole twitches in the cooler air. A tickle of oil over it. Pouring. Flowing down his exposed ass down to drip off his swollen balls. 

Crowley chases the oil with his tongue. There. Down between his pale slicked cheeks. His tongue seeks the hottest flesh. The tight exposed little pink hole there. His nails bite into the generous handfuls of flesh as Aziraphale moans. He moans and pants and wiggles his ass for more. And Crowley doesn’t stop. He laps and flicks and tongues at his pretty angel until he can work the point of his tongue inside. Aziraphale is pushing back now, arching, reaching back with one hand to pull himself open. The storm of pleasure is more than he could have ever imagined. Not ever. The clumsy fumbling of ancient sex workers have completely been obliterated by the juggernaut of sensation. 

Crowley. That beautiful impossible being. Bent over his body and tasting him like a starving man would have a desert. The faint rasp of his close shave is rubbing against the bottom curve of his ass. It is impossible to count every single sensation as Crowley isn’t giving him even a moment to breathe, to think. One slender slick finger sinks into him. All while the rubbing wet flex of Crowley’s tongue laps around it and even dips inside with it. Aziraphale’s hips shake and his cock digs into pre-cum slick leather of the bolster. Crowley is fucking that oil inside him. Pushing his scent there. Rubbing his claiming scent inside of the angel. Another drizzle, feeling cool compared to the heat of him. The demon tugs his hole to open him for the oil. Dripping it inside. Following it with slippery pumps of his finger to push it deeper. Aziraphale is whining now, his hips churning to fuck his cock into the unsatisfying thick surface of the bolster while Crowley fingerfucks him. So close. He is close now. His entire body is shuddering and twitching and begging. 

It isn’t the finger pressed inside of him that makes him come. It isn’t the almost painful rutting of his cock against the bolster. 

It is the gasped little hitching catch of Crowley’s breath against his flesh. The little tight curses. He is masterbating behind him. “My angel.” The demon groans and Aziraphale knows he is coming. What else can he do but follow? 

The most humiliating thing about coming around after sex isn’t the finger still pushed into your asshole. It is the mortifying realization that about two minutes ago, that was the center of your universe. The cold flood of reality douses whatever lingering afterglow his body might be attempting. He looks ridiculous. Naked and covered in oil and a complete wreck. He scrambles for the towel and jerks his hips down. Crowley’s wet fingers brush against his skin and it only feels gross now. 

This. This is the part where he is going to have to somehow explain. 

Crowley is still catching his breath. Leaning against the massage table while Aziraphale manages to straighten himself and fish the tunic out of the pile of fabric by the door.

“Angel. There is no rush. You can rest. If you like. Shower. Whatever you need.” Crowley offers in a half hoarse still unsteady voice. 

“What is the time?” Aziraphale asks.

“Time?” Crowley squints at him like he just asked about the moon or calculus. “We are eight minutes over.” 

“Finished then.” Aziraphale nods as if that is settled. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Crowley.” 

The absolute steadiness of his voice and the immediate displacement of air says everything in that moment and Crowley is left completely stunned. What just happened? Had he won?


	4. Day two

It is half past eight pm when Aziraphale rings the buzzer for Crowley’s flat. The demon answers his door wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and a soft black jersey knit tee. “I didn’t expect to see you.” he says while tipping his head to rest on the doorframe. 

“What makes you say that?” Aziraphale answers as if he doesn’t already know.

“Well. You popped out of here like your arse was on fire. Then you didn’t answer your phone today. Figured that was that.” He doesn’t look particularly upset or worried about the prospect, only quietly matter of fact.

“And let you win so easily?” Aziraphale manages to joke with a lightness that isn’t really doing a very good job of hiding his nerves.

“OH. Well we can’t have that. For sure. Come on in, angel.” Crowley steps back and swings his door open wider to welcome his friend inside. 

After exchanging his shoes for house slippers and his jacket for a soft miraculous cardigan that Crowley snaps into existence, Aziraphale follows the demon into a minimalist living room with an enormous white leather couch and that same charcoal grey and black scheme. Crowley heads for the wine cabinet in the corner of the room and fiddles with uncorking and serving up glasses for them both.

Crowley waits until they have settled on the sofa to pick up the conversation “You haven’t come to confess that I was right all along have you?” He asks in a tone that suggests he already knows the answer to his question.

“No. Of course not. I told you Crowley. If you touch this body it will react and frankly, if anyone had been in that exact situation and did the exact same things, I’m sure the results would have been similar. I did want to have sex but I would have wanted that with anyone who touched me like that. The baths are an exquisite temptation. Your claim is that I want to have sex with you. Specifically.”

Crowley looks distinctly offended. “Well, don’t flatter me too much, angel. I’m not sure I can take it.” He grumbles. Yes. Definitely offended. 

“Crowley, I told you. This is a silly wager and I am an angel.” Aziraphale’s brow furrows.

“Angel, I would believe you if that wasn’t the same argument you have used as a shield between us for absolutely everything. It is a way to forestall a conversation and not an actual argument. It is the thing you say when you would prefer to avoid facing something head on.”

That snaps his mouth shut. Is it? He hadn’t noticed that. It just seemed like a statement of the obvious reason why he isn’t interested in such things. This body isn’t him. He is merely inhabiting it and thus, not all of his needs or desires match what the body would suggest. The body makes several suggestions that he quite happily subverts. Like sleep. The body would prefer to wash the brain in chemicals while lying in a state of turned off consciousness. But he is an angel. There is no need and no assumption that he might want those things. All he has to do is say “I am an angel” and everyone should just know of course, that there is plenty of reason to ignore these things. 

Not Crowley though. He isn’t satisfied with that answer. He sleeps. He has never been one for not examining things. Asking questions. Of course. “I am an angel.” is not enough of an answer. What is the answer then? Does he even know? There is something distasteful and uncomfortable about the whole thing but what exactly is it? 

Crowley interrupts his train of thought with a decisive nod. “I tell you what, angel. We will do tonight’s challenge right here. Now. And I won’t touch you at all. Not at all. You won’t be able to say that anyone else could have done the same. It will be me that you want.” 

Yesterday was so elaborate. Deliberate. A planned seduction. Every single moment had been orchestrated beautifully. Crowley is suggesting right now, right here, he will somehow pull a sexual conquest out of thin air. Without touching him. It’s almost intimidating how confident the demon is about this. Like he sees something Aziraphale doesn’t. Like he knows his imagination is up to the task. What is he going to do? The angel is so curious that his anxiety doesn’t stop him from agreeing. 

Of course, the moment he does agree, he feels himself freeze in anticipation. Crowley doesn’t leap into action. Nothing changes. He simply stands to refill his wine and returns to sit on the couch. He is a tiny bit closer, not touching distance. Just the smallest bit closer, enough to make a conversation slightly more intimate, nothing more. 

Crowley stretches his arm along the back of the couch, and turns his face to rest his chin on his bicep. It is a typical Crowley lounge. One leg drawn up onto the sofa, his body turned toward Aziraphale. Fingertips just inches from the angel’s shoulder. “You know what I was doing when you buzzed the door, angel?” 

The angel shakes his head.

“I was setting up everything just right to have a proper mope. A real wallowing in misery kind of night. I am in pajamas from nineteen eighty three that should have seen the inside of a bin ages ago. I have wine. I was going to turn on the telly” Crowley sits straight to take a sip of his wine and snaps his free hand toward the room. A television begins to slide out of the ceiling. Well, to call it a television is understating it. It is basically a wall. The television flickers to life and there is the familiar creaking of boards and the resonance of theatre. Hamlet. Filmed so intimately and beautifully that the actors could be standing in the room. “Gloomy one, that. Perfect for my mope. Perfect for being miserable.” A second snap has the room lights dim and the sound muted. A flickering blue wash highlights his sharp features and tints his hair a blood black. 

“Why were you going to be moping, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, still a little off balance by this strange turn.

The demon keeps his chin on his arm so that his talking moves his head up and down. “Didn’t think I would see you for a while. Figured it was all fucked. So I was settling in to miss you. I was going to imagine you just like this, angel. Sitting just as you are. Right here with me. Hamlet on my telly because you like it.” Crowley turns his head to press his cheek against the sofa, soft golden eyes watching the angel. “Well, not exactly as you are. More like, as you were. Last night.”

Aziraphale feels his face flush with embarrassment and he turns his eyes away from the soft intensity of Crowley’s gaze. 

“I won’t touch you. I promised. But we are in a challenge and I want to give you everything. All of the information about what I can see in front of me. I am convinced that there is something about sex that you want and we will uncover it if we keep going.”

The angel watches the silent actors gesture and step through the familiar play. He knows, somehow, that Crowley is not lying. He was going to sit here on this couch, comforting himself with worn clothes and wine. He had started a preparation for missing him. Had Crowley done this before?  
Aziraphale had never allowed himself that much self care. He never set aside time to miss his friend. Always, he would push aside the tiniest little shred of longing or thoughts of the demon the second they appeared. The way you handle things like shame. Like sex. You just. Stop them before they can hurt you. He felt like, if he let himself ever miss Crowley like that, he would collapse somehow. He would just cry and ache and there isn’t any point. He couldn’t risk giving that kind of space inside himself. It became just how things were done. A habit of backing off. Holding back. Sucking in the pain to endure it. He knows why he started doing it in the first place, but why is he still doing that? Why hadn’t he ever sat in his bookshop and just said to himself “I miss Crowley? I want him here beside me right now. It hurts to watch him leave. Every single time.”

Crowley isn’t like him. The demon was going to sit on the couch and miss him. He was going to mope. He just admitted it out loud. And nothing bad happened. It was so casual. So anticlimactic. He just sat on his sofa with his wine balanced on his calf and his face against the leather and said “I was planning on spending the night missing you.” 

Crowley has always been the brave one. Just saying out loud what everyone else is thinking. Asking questions and poking. Like, “You want to have sex with me.” and “I miss you.” It is something he hasn’t been brave enough to even say to himself. It's staggeringly intimate. 

“Y’alright angel?” The demon interrupts his train of thought.

“Yes. Fine.” Aziraphale lies. It makes Crowley’s lips tip up in a smile. “The. Uh. The wager.” He doesn’t actually make a sentence out of it, but leaves the words just hanging out there, knowing that Crowley will decipher what he means. He even dares to glance quickly at Crowley’s face. It is reassuring to see him still lounging as if half asleep. 

He doesn’t move even as he says in a perfectly level voice. “Take your clothes off, angel.” 

Aziraphale practically shouts “What?!” 

“Your clothes. Take them off. I won’t touch you. I promised I wouldn’t. You still have that word as well. You can say the word and leave if you need to. I will try again another way tomorrow. And that will be that. But right now, take your clothes off.”

A terrifying swoop of adrenaline and nervousness descends on Aziraphale. It feels like falling. Feels like standing beside Crowley while Satan tears out of the ground. Feels like careening into central London in the Bentley. 

Maybe he likes this. 

Maybe he stays around Crowley for these exact things. To be challenged. To be asked for more than he thinks he can give. Immortality is a whole lot of everyday motions that just drone on and on forever. This demon is a spanner in the works. The spark of his rebellion. The wildfire that licks hot and wild just outside of civilization. So even though his knees feel like they might be shaking and his heart is slamming, he does it. He isn’t brave enough to watch Crowley while he does. But he does it. Strips off each layer of his clothing in his usual careful way. He tries not to think about all those passive aggressive comments from other angels. He wonders for half a second if Crowley finds his body attractive before dismissing it as ridiculous. What does it matter if he doesn’t intend to have sex with him? Why is he even thinking about that? It's just a corporation. A vessel. It isn’t even him! He sits back on the sofa because his legs won’t behave and it’s too damn much to stand there exposed. 

“Angel. Turn toward me. I want you to watch me. You don’t have to do anything else. Just watch.” The soft challenge in Crowley’s voice is steady as a rock and makes his stomach do another fluttering flip. 

“Alright.” Aziraphale says and watches Crowley relocate his mostly empty wine glass and settle back against the arm of the couch, facing the angel. 

He looks so comfortable. Soft. It is almost shocking. Crowley always walks around looking sharp and sleek and expensive. He erects barriers around himself with fashion. He uses trends that stamp him as mostly unapproachable. Here, his thin pale arms poke out of black shirt sleeves with awkward elbows and his hair is piled atop his head in some messy twist. 

“Yes. Exactly like this. I was going to imagine you here just like that.” Crowley’s eyes pin Aziraphale in place. He can feel them drifting over his skin like a touch. He looks directly at the angel without shame, down his chest and between his legs. Crowley’s face looks dazed. His face is flushed enough that even in the dim flickering light, Aziraphale can see it. 

Then his hands are moving, pushing up the hem of his shirt. His soft flat stomach is dusted with a whirl of dark hair that arrows up his chest. His fingertips brush against his nipples. It's just a nipple. Just flesh. It isn’t even Crowley. Aziraphale has to remind himself. It isn’t even him. Just the body. The demon’s lashes flutter for a second but those eyes still keep watching him. By the time he leans up to peel his shirt off, Aziraphale can feel his heart racing. 

The typical need to fidget and wring his hands reminds him that he is holding a glass of wine. With some small gratitude for something to distract himself with, the angel takes a drink. He makes the vital mistake of continuing to watch Crowley as he does it. Those golden eyes flash and watch his mouth. He watches Aziraphale swallow, and licks his own lips. 

It makes Aziraphale feel suddenly aware of how many times the demon has done just that. Watched him. Drink or eat. 

Oh. OH. 

Aziraphale takes another sip. Crowley rubs his hands down to touch his thighs. There is a blatant swollen bulge in his grey trackkies. Aziraphale licks a stray drop of wine from the corner of his mouth and Crowley's stomach flexes and his thighs clamp together and he clenches his fingers in the fabric of his tracksuit bottoms. 

"Take another drink, angel." Crowley insists while his eyes refuse to relent. Aziraphale does. Heaven help him. It's too fascinating. It had always been unspoken between them. This tension. The careful way they had shared meals. An excuse to meet in public. He had known. Somewhere in the back of his mind that he had Crowley's attention at the table. That he was center stage for a few hours. He enjoyed it. Fuck. He loved it. He purposefully would choose long complicated meals with interesting or unusual methods to eat it. Sushi with its chopsticks and even a barbaric rack of ribs a time or two. So he could lick his fingertips. All while Crowley watched. 

Not once had he considered what all it meant. That he might be tempting in any way. That Crowley might be watching him with sexual interest. He had ignored the niggling notion and dismissed it any time it might have come up. 

It had come up often. 

Aziraphale feels something hot burning up his chest and face. A power he has. Over Crowley. He could dip his fingertips into the wine and suck it off. And Crowley will respond. He will squirm or whine or pull those tracksuit bottoms down. 

Aziraphale holds his wine and curves his middle and ring finger over the lip of the glass. His fingertips sink to the first knuckle into the wine. Crowley's white teeth sink into his bottom lip. The angel lifts his wet fingertips to his mouth and pops them inside. Crowley groans. He groans low and his hands shove the grey tracksuit down. He isn't wearing pants. The demon kicks his clothing down those impossibly long legs and sprawls completely naked.

Aziraphale stares. "I didn't know, you. Uhm." He manages. It isn't a complete thought but Crowley is used to speaking in half sentences or even without words. 

"Ah- yes. Sometimes I don't even make it to this couch. Sometimes I drop you off and toss off in my fucking car. You make me crazy. So completely gorgeous when you are eating. Absorbed by the senses. You touch your hands on all of it and your mouth. Fuck." Crowley tips his head back against the arm of the sofa and wraps his hand around his cock. 

It is a handsome cock. He shouldn't be surprised. Lanky men seem to have a certain predisposition toward large heavy packages and Crowley has always been one to intuit aesthetic beauty. Fuck. When had he started forming opinions on how erections should look? Naked bodies should mean nothing to an angel. This one does. He can't deny it. Ignore it. Crowley strokes his pale graceful hands up the length of his fat swollen dick and Aziraphale is breathless at how beautiful he is. It is a fact of nature. The music of Mozart, the whimsy of Shakespeare, the art of Michelangelo, and Crowley is beautiful. The body he inhabits. The gleam of his golden eyes. The sway of his hips. His gorgeous hair. And this. The stiff hot length of his prick. It's not just Aziraphale that thinks so either. The amount of people that stare. The way they look crestfallen when they notice he is in the company of another. 

Aziraphale stares. In the silence, in the tension, he can hear Crowley's breath hitching. He can't stop looking at it. Until Crowley stops. Mid stroke. "Eyes up here, angel." The demon teases. 

Aziraphale can feel himself blushing hot as he jerks his gaze away from the impossibly erotic sight of those fingers pulling his uncut foreskin down to expose the wet slit at the tip. Crowley is tracing his eyes all over Aziraphale again. Fuck. When had he gotten so hard? But yes. His aching cock is straining to match the one he has been staring at. And the demon is looking at it. 

"I can still taste you angel. From yesterday. Now that I have done it once. Now I can select it out of the air. From here. Your skin is still soaked in my scent. Why haven’t you washed yourself? You could have removed it instantly. With a thought.” Crowley strokes his long fingers over his thighs and hips. “You still smell like sex.” 

Aziraphale’s wine glass shakes in his hand as he clenches the glass. Why hadn’t he? The demon was right. His bare skin is heating and sweating against the white leather of the couch. The smell of his bookshop and cologne mixing with the burnt cedar smoke of Crowley’s wing oil. He smells like them. Together. 

The angel suddenly feels the silence stretching between them and knows that if he just keeps staring that his own arousal is going to get worse. What sort of conversation does one have with a masturbating demon who happens to be your best friend? “So. You. Sometimes…” he begins while trying to resist yet another experiment on licking wine from his fingers or even worse, taking his own stiff cock in hand.

“Yes. Sometimes.” Crowley answers in a low breathless voice. “Sometimes before meeting up with you so that I could handle myself better. Sometimes after.” Crowley bites his bottom lip and arches a brow meaningfully before tacking on. “Sometimes, during.” 

“Wha? During?! How?” Aziraphale asks before he can stop himself. He really shouldn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know! Does he?

“Well. I always could fuck with time.” The demon says with a totally unrepentant mischievous look on his face. “Sometimes the loo as well.” 

“Are you seriously telling me that you would be out with me, stop time, and then…?” The angel dips his eyes down to where Crowley’s long fingers still trace along his stiff length. 

“Oh yes!” He flashes that completely wicked grin and Aziraphale can’t help but mirror the look. 

“You are awful, Crowley.” Aziraphale insists and flicks his eyes quickly away from the naked demon. 

“Mmm” The demon agrees. “You like it.” He tacks on and lifts his chin as if to point at the half hard evidence that he is right. 

Aziraphale is saved from the humiliation of his blush by Crowley rolling onto his side for a moment and fishing beside the couch for something. There is only a flash of light glinting from the now familiar ampoule of oil that the demon tips onto his fingers and palm. “I have enough if you need some, angel. For that.” The demon says as he slides his slick fingers back down his cock. 

That scent is rising again. The hot gorgeous scent that makes Aziraphale imagine pressing his face into Crowley’s wings and smelling it there. He won’t be able to ever sit next to his friend again without some small half imagined whiff of this scent catching his attention. He knows it now. Just like Crowley had said that he knew Aziraphale’s scent. 

The oil gleams in the silvery light, highlighting the tendons of Crowley’s hands as they flex and dance. His prick stands thicker and flushed almost purple in the silvery light. He digs his fingers in a vee to scrape his tidy pubic hair and it makes his cock wobble and twitch before he soothes it with his other palm, pulling it against his flat belly and dragging his thumb down his shaft. Those clever fingers reach beneath to cup his balls, rolling gently. 

Aziraphale can suddenly remember the gliding heat of those hands. Palms that were friction warmed and rubbing over his hips and thighs. Cupping the back of his neck. Pushing into his hair. It had felt as good as Crowley sounds right now. Soft little noises hitch barely above a whisper and it makes the angel ache to move closer. To hear them better. The demon is trying to contain himself even in this moment. The restraint of him trying to slowly ease his body all the way to the edge without frightening off his audience is making it worse. 

It is so incredibly deeply moving. 

If Crowley had made some shocking noises with blatant sexual prowess and pornstar acrobatics, Aziraphale could storm out of here and feel justified in outrage. This is another night exactly like they have had before. Sitting and having wine. Watching a play. The only dimension added is the privacy, the intimacy, and this careful way that Crowley has become so vulnerable. So goddamn soft. He writhes there, his toes curling and his teeth biting back any sounds. The exquisite restraint and tempered offering. Not too much. Not too fast. Just this. Aziraphale can see his heart fluttering in his chest, his eyes that keep opening the smallest slit to keep watching him. It makes Aziraphale imagine him without restraint. Scrabbling and straining and arching and cursing. 

Just as Aziraphale is almost certain he has adjusted to what he is seeing. Sure. He can manage to note all the aesthetic qualities and the scent of sex and view of Crowley being so sweet. It was not enough to overcome his reservations about the entire thing. 

Until Crowley turned over. 

Aziraphale had always favored his friend’s angular sharp face. His expressive brows and that cheeky curl that always lifts over his forehead. However, as of today, he is going to have to revise his opinion. The long elegant line of his back framed by freckle dusted broad shoulders and that narrow waist. And that arse. Oh fuck. Quite tidy and lean but absolute perfection. And displayed as it is right now. Crowley has his knees drawn up beneath him and he leans one elbow on the arm of the couch. That gorgeous arse is hitched up and of course, he would have his long fingers back there, stroking and rubbing oil there between his cheeks. 

The angel doesn’t remember standing. He doesn’t know when it happened. He only knows that one second he is sitting on the end of the couch and the next, he is standing over the naked demon that is fingering himself over the arm of the couch. 

The scent of the oil and the wild pink rose of Crowley’s blush is so much clearer this close. The demon’s back ripples as he hunches forward and then arches back into his fingers. Aziraphale’s nails cut into his palms as he clenches his fists to keep from touching the demon. But Crowley is still being so quiet. He knows. All of their history tells him exactly how he could take the demon apart. He could make him shout and cum. That sense of power is there again. 

There is no rule that he cannot touch Crowley. So he dares it. He pushes his fingers into the messy tangle of Crowley’s hair. Digs his fingertips into it in a half daze. Exactly this. Crowley breaks open with a little soft sob. His next breath carries a long desperate moan. 

More.

He wants more.

He bends close, wanting Crowley to hear him over the steady stream of hot little whimpering gasps and moans. 

“Give me your wings.” He insists in a soft but surprisingly steady command.

Those great black wings unfurl in a slow muscular wave as Crowley shouts. Actually shouts. 

Aziraphale answers some mostly forgotten instinct and leans over the gasping and shaking demon to pin his wings down. His right arm stretching up to cage him on the sofa and his face bending to press into the flesh where his wings meet. His fist is now clutching Crowley’s hair to yank his head back.

The demon goes wild beneath him. Bucking and gasping and coming with a low desperate jumble of expletives and angels, and Aziraphale, even. 

It takes more than just a moment for Aziraphale to come to some senses. Enough to check the time. Ok. He can leave.

So. He does.


	5. wanna bet?

Aziraphale is waiting for Crowley when his beast of a car screeches to the kerb on the final day of their challenge. A tense expectant silence accompanies them to the back room where Aziraphale already has set out glasses of wine.

The demon is too agitated for wine. His entire body is one big fidget that refuses to settle anywhere. He ricochets from one pillar to the edge of a bookshelf to the couch and then back before finally Aziraphale catches him in the center of the room by grasping his elbows and pulling him gently to a stop.

Crowley still hasn’t said a word. He has only made inarticulate noises of frustration. The sudden stop and focus of Aziraphale meeting his eyes is enough to settle him the tiniest bit, but still words don’t seem likely. He isn’t wearing his shades. Now that Aziraphale notices, he sees there are other signs that Crowley isn’t quite himself. His face has a hint of scruff where his inattention to the body has allowed the natural beard growth to carry on without interference. The demon’s hands are shaking. All of him is shaking. He looks. Upset. 

“Crowley. What is wrong? What happened?” Aziraphale tries to figure out what is wrong by scanning his friend’s face and getting nowhere. The demon’s heart is pounding and he looks about two seconds away from a full on panic attack.

Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate a moment. Not a second. He immediately draws him into his arms. Crowley folds into the embrace with a long shaking shiver and hides his face in Aziraphale’s neck. The demon clings like he might fall or collapse and Aziraphale accepts all of the leaning weight of him. Soft little desperate gasps puff against his ear and he can feel Crowley’s fingers clenching and unclenching in the cozy knit of his jumper. 

The angel has seen Crowley in every sort of state. Angry, tired, defiant, sad. You cannot be so close for so long and not see every kind of mood that a corporation can inflict on its inhabitant. At least, he had thought so. This one though. Perhaps the closest he has seen Crowley to completely undone by some flood of emotion. Even more than when he had found him mourning a friend during that terrible almost apocalypse. 

They just stand for long moments until Crowley begins to calm. Aziraphale is smoothing a hand down the demon’s spine in long soothing strokes. After a long while, he feels Crowley start to stir, eyelashes brushing against his throat, and warm breath following. Soft barely noticeable kisses. So delicate and gentle against the edge of his collar, behind his ear, over his jaw. Crowley is ghosting his mouth so softly, as if Aziraphale is made of glass. His precious friend.  
Separating for only a moment, Crowley flicks his eyes to meet the angel’s. He looks. So afraid. So worried. So sad. 

And then he is kissing him. His mouth is more polite than his hands that grip so tight that they shake. In all of this speaking of sexual conquest and lust, he hadn’t kissed Aziraphale. His mouth had been in far more salacious and intimate places. He had smiled and smirked and grimaced his way through every encounter. But he hadn’t kissed Aziraphale. Not once. 

His lips are dry and soft, rubbing with gentle nudges while Crowley holds his breath and waits. Waits for Aziraphale to respond. Oh. His sweet friend. The scent of him so close. The mild rasp of his chin there bumping against his. 

Aziraphale softens his mouth and presses back. He nudges his face in the smallest motion and Crowley melts for him. Suddenly everything that is Crowley is right here. Everything that makes him who he is, the embodied spark of him is struck and burns against Aziraphale. The sliding brush of serpent scales and the beat of wings all sheltering this moment in their embrace. He is holding all of Crowley. The ancient unknowable breath of divinity that forged the helium hearts of nebulae. The wild snarling skinny thing that stopped time and held the antichrist’s hand. The desperate beauty who had cried out his name just yesterday. All of him pressed right against Aziraphale and shaking with the terror of it. Being close to him feels different now than it ever has before. Changed. It will never be the same again. Not after this moment. They have touched so deep within each other that it cannot be undone. There is a new bright precious thing that has sprung up between their pressing lips. 

Aziraphale had struggled to keep everything platonic between them and suddenly it seems so trivial. More trivial than anything. How can he feel his heart beating except that it beats in the same world where Crowley exists? How can he measure this beauty that breathes and trembles for him without seeing his own self somewhere in between every jittering atom? Aziraphale feels dizzy with the impact of it. His hands reach for Crowley’s arms to steady himself and Crowley’s own beautiful fingers reach to capture his jaw. The demon holds his face like a treasure, like something beloved and presses his mouth over his lips again. Again. His eyelids, his nose. The entire universe unfolds around this moment and Aziraphale takes that time to count Crowley’s eyelashes and the number of freckles across his nose. The demon’s eyes are closed and his brow is furrowed and the spill of passionate love tips from his lips into Aziraphale’s skin where they seal it there. And there. And there. 

They are kissing without reservation and between each kiss, Crowley is gasping and spilling emotion. His body presses and arches and begs. Aziraphale gathers him closer, tighter. Soothing and stroking him in answer. As if some door has unlocked inside of him. Some space has opened inside of him that will give the demon anything, everything he needs. He hadn’t seen it. He was foolish to not know this. How Crowley might need this from him. Might ask it of him. This embodied expression, this private space inside of themselves to be so vulnerable and wanted. It is a necessary thing for him. 

For Crowley to need a thing is for Aziraphale to need it too. Just as it is impossible to see him hurt without feeling the strike. To watch him ascend without spreading his own wings. There will be no moment that Crowley looks at him with some unslaked thirst that he would not cross a desert to quench.

Crowley has backed them both into a wall, apparently. Neither had noticed it in the increasingly wet kisses that are quickly devolving into biting groaning desperate things. Now that there is a solid wall behind him, there is nothing to keep Crowley from plastering himself all along Aziraphale’s front and grinding the stiff line of his prick into the angel’s hip. They both pant at the filthy swivel of Crowley’s hips. Then like a shot of electricity had zapped up his spine, Crowley lurches back. Gasping. 

His face is flushed and lips kiss swollen. And he blinks for a minute while sucking in air. “Angel.” He manages to grit between his teeth. “You.” He closes his eyes for a second in an obvious effort to calm himself. “I forfeit. You don’t have to do this anymore. You can stop. We can stop. This. It’s over and you don’t have to. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was wrong. It’s not right. What I did. You are right. You are an angel. It’s. I promise it’s ok.” 

Aziraphale stares at him for a minute, trying to comprehend. Wasn’t Crowley there just now? Wasn’t he noticing exactly how eager and more than ready Aziraphale had been? How much he had wanted sex? Craved it with him? “Have to? Crowley. I wasn’t just letting you do that. I wasn’t just going along. Didn’t you feel it? Any of that? I lost the wager. I want you, Crowley. Quite desperately.” Aziraphale looks down toward his own swollen erection that tents his trousers. “I am not faking that.” 

“It’s all right angel, you told me yourself. The body responds. I understand. I promise I won’t bother you with it again. I don’t want to play any more. It was a stupid idea. We can be finished.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “Oh. You idiot.” He whispers and reaches for Crowley’s hands. “Just now. Kissing me just now, did it feel like a game to you? Did it feel like a joke or a lark or something casual to you?” 

Crowley avoids his eyes by staring at the closest bookshelf, his hand hanging limp in Aziraphale’s grasp. He blinks as if to stretch his eyelids and keep tears from falling. “No.” he answers and the guilt and sorrow in that single word is almost enough to break the angel’s heart. 

Oh his ridiculous wild frustrating demon! He still isn’t getting it. “It didn’t feel like a game to me either. It didn’t feel like a joke or a wager. It felt like loving you. Like wanting you. Ok? I was completely blind to what this might be when we started. I know now. This thing is something I want too.”

Crowley’s voice sounds almost hoarse and can barely be heard “You want to have sex with me?” He asks as if somebody is going to slap him for saying it.  
“I think that is what I am getting at. Yes.” Aziraphale answers while feeling the smallest hint of absurd humor at this ridiculous conversation.

“You don’t feel those things. You said. You are just trying to make me feel better.” Crowley still insists.

“Crowley, I think perhaps I am a little bit different than you, yes. I don’t generate some sexual craving all of my own. I don’t naturally come to those cravings on my own.”

The demon shrinks in obvious disappointment at this news.

“But.---No. Crowley hear me out.” Aziraphale reaches for his chin and gently urges his face toward his own so that he can make himself absolutely clear. “When I am with you. When I see you and feel you in that way, when I can taste you and hear you wanting that, it makes me. Well. It makes me respond. Something inside wakes up. I feel myself burning right there with you. It is you that I want. And if you are like that, if you need that, I want to give it to you. Will you let me do that?”

Crowley is quiet for a minute, trying to turn it over in his head. “Are you--?”

Aziraphale knows that Crowley is going to ask if he is sure again and kissing him is a much better way of convincing him.

Crowley melts for him again, his lips parting and his fingertips finding Aziraphale’s hips. Aziraphale drives one hand up into Crowley’s hair and scratches his nails against his scalp. It makes the demon shiver from head to toe and whimper against Aziraphale’s mouth. 

That dark little wicked flicker of power that he has over Crowley re-asserts itself and Aziraphale tips his head to scrape his teeth over the demon’s pulse. “Crowley. We do need to review your methods for petitioning an angel for sex.” 

The demon is so dazed with lust that he only hazily registers the sharp edge of dominance in that soft commanding tone. Or the way that Aziraphale has reversed their position to pin Crowley to the wall. It is the same creeping power that had inspired Aziraphale to ask for those wings and he is just getting started. 

Aziraphale unfastens Crowley’s trousers and slides one soft hand inside to brush his fingertips against the leaking tip of his erection. “You suggested that I wanted to fuck you, Crowley. I should have seen it. Classic projection. You are the one gagging for it, aren’t you love?” 

Crowley hisses and tips his head back and tries not to let his knees buckle. “Angel!” he begs incoherently.

“Mmmm. Don’t worry you gorgeous thing. I will give you everything you want. But I think I will give it to you when you ask me properly. Hmm?” Aziraphale nips his teeth into the edge of Crowley’s jaw and removes his hands and hips and everything from touching the squirming demon. 

He watches him. Watches Crowley wrestle with his body and try to clear his head. He waits for those bright eyes to open. It takes a minute and he loves every single second of it. When those hazy eyes open, his own smile is there to greet them.

“There you are. Ok love?” He checks while measuring the slamming throb of Crowley’s wild heart. 

Crowley nods silently.

“Allright. You know our word. The one to make it stop.” Aziraphale lifts one of Crowley’s shaking hands to his mouth and kisses his fingertips, then his palm. 

Crowley nods again, his eyes watching the angel’s mouth intently.

“Let’s see if you can ask properly this time, Crowley.” he demands and pins his gaze directly into Crowley’s. 

The demon licks his lips and swallows. “Please.” He manages to whisper.

“Please??” the angel answers back with feigned innocence. 

Crowley bites his bottom lip and shivers. Aziraphale rescues the lip by pressing his thumb against his chin and soothing the bite with the pad of it. The demon is stuck. Aziraphale can see it.

“You challenged an angel, you wild thing. You wagered that I want you for sex. Now, we both know why. And I am absolutely going to give you everything you want. You should have asked for it in the beginning. But here we are and I’m so ready.” Aziraphale rocks his aching cock against Crowley’s hip. “I want to make you scream my name. Again. But you have to tell me what you want.” He whispers the last words against the column of Crowley’s throat. 

“Angel. Touch me. Please. Just. Fuck.” Crowley is vibrating and blazing with heat and Aziraphale can’t move fast enough to give him what he needs. His hands are everywhere, tugging at Crowley’s clothes and dipping inside to rub and pinch and stroke every inch of skin he can reach. 

His words are just as unrestrained. “So good for me. Look at you. You are gorgeous like this. You can have anything you want, Crowley. Let me make you come. Let me touch you everywhere you like. Open your legs for me. Hold your arms up. You smell like sex, you sweet thing. So hard. There. I know. It hurts doesn’t it?” 

At some point, Crowley’s legs just cannot hold him any longer and they wind up on the floor. Aziraphale is wringing his cock in slow maddening strokes and the demon is trying not to cry from the tsunami of emotions that have swamped every inch of his skin. His nails have scored long red tracks down the angel’s arms and the inhuman strength of the angel’s persistence hasn’t wavered one inch. He is determined to drive Crowley as far into pleasure as he can and judging by the hoarse shouting chant of his name, he is getting close. 

They come at the same time, Crowley spilling so violently over the angel’s fist that he catches some on his chin and hair as well. The angel inside his pants, as he hadn’t removed a single stitch of clothing. Which he will certainly regret. The toll of their passion on his wardrobe has only just begun. 

They both lay dazed on the floor. Tangled up in each other. Trying to remember exactly how their corporations are supposed to work. 

“Angel.” Crowley ventures in a rather husky sounding voice.

“Mmm” Aziraphale answers.

“The wager was a dumb thing. I was going nuts and wanted to provoke you.” 

Aziraphale manages to turn onto his side to look at Crowley who is sprawled shamelessly with his trousers around his knees and his stomach splattered in come. “Well. It worked. In a roundabout way.” He points out kindly.

“Angel.” Crowley repeats and turns his face to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Hmm?” 

“I bet you love me.” he says.


End file.
